


I should've left my phone at home ('cause this is a disaster)

by winterysomnium



Series: Makeup AU [4]
Category: DC AU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, makeup AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Chinese or Italian?” he asked, tapping the screen restlessly.  “The carpet? Not imported,” Tim answered, his gaze glued to the three piles of papers he had built before his knees. “I meant *lunch*.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I should've left my phone at home ('cause this is a disaster)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration AU that I am writing with the ever amazing varebanos. We came up with it after rewatching Under the Red Hood and after throwing the line “Get the Al Ghul look” into the conversation.   
> Lyrics from the song "Telephone" by Lady Gaga (It really fits, you will see!) , suggested by Miss Victoria! Thank you!

Tim’s steps could have been measured in cups and Jason’s in bottles, Tim’s small under the strain yet strong where they centered in, where they stood their ground but utterly shakable, breakable and fragile, like the hands weaved under the heavy box, cardboard and tape and strings of dust; labeled by Jason’s rushed handwriting, by his careless scribbles and the _PAPERS No.1_ reminded him of cigarettes again, of smoke that needs to be took in to start the fire, of smoke that’s as shallow as his perception of what was happening but thick like his skull, his and Tim’s and this building’s bricks’; the building seemed to breathe through his lungs. He dared to take a turn he didn’t remember marking as seen, didn’t remember with his sight but with touch, rushed through the unused scents and forgotten air hanging like smog, like the consciousness of the company he was trying to become, the company he had to plaster across every hollow and dip and door, across the mind of everyone he was going to hire, across the shelter this might be – 

and try to get rid of the rust.

The rust on the handle, inside his hands, between him and Barbara, him and Babs’ easily lost phone number, between her and the guilt of only calling when he was soft, when he was half of his shell and half of raw skin, half the boy he pretended to grow up as, half the kid that smoked cigarettes so he wouldn’t look afraid, so his hands wouldn’t shake outside of his bones, inside his hoodie. He was guilty of it the same way she was, the same way he can’t call Bruce and she can’t phone Dick, the way they always met when the other’s ground was getting undermined, strings of numbers the swaying straws and if there was one thing they could do: it was to talk each other into letting go.

Into going with the flow. Drowning the water. Treading it within yourself. They told each other to swallow. And to breathe.

( _Panic only makes you drown._ )

She knew when he dialed, the cigarette already burning between his teeth, she knew him enough to recognize he’s already eating the smoke, even if he didn’t chew and didn’t give it a chance, he dialed and sucked smoke, it evaporated across his nose, he nearly coughed.

The balcony was dried with dirt and full with its dull vacancy, crunchy under his shoes and he was going to track his steps all the way to the office, a road for Tim to follow, a trail for _them_ to sweep and:

that was why he was here, why he was calling, why he was suddenly slammed into the feeling of being _something_ , of being a unity, of being a being with responsibility beyond decaying skin and allergies, beyond keeping his faces and skins and bones attractive, and it was a nice, slow exhale of the ugly things heavy in his lungs, once he heard Babs’ amber voice.

Something in him connected immediately, something sagged against his spine and the air had room to expand, to spread cobwebs between his ribs.

“Hello, Jason,” she greeted him; the skinny smile a memory he could project, fit into the cracks of the pavement beneath. “Doctor Babs is all ears.”

“That damn obvious, huh?” He falsifies the smile onto his own skin, his mouth dry but the filter damp, he taps the cigarette with his finger. “But hi, Babs. How’s life treating you?”

“The way it always has: supplying me with calls from distressed boys daily.”

“Should I try to come up with something helluva clever worthy of the fine lady you are or give up flattery right away?” Jason asked, the street only a wallpaper that swam behind his back, his forearms dyed in grey whites where they supported his weight, the stone of the balcony smearing its cold paints as Jason focused on the glass of the door. 

“ _Spare me_ ,” Barbara answered, put her fingers against the plastic keys of her keyboard. 

_Let’s skip drowning._

“What’s up, Jay?” 

(And dive right in.)

“You _wouldn’t_ believe who’s stacking boxes into my office right now,” he said, and if he focused, Jason could find the window, the frame, the glass that poured, that broke and spilled warm angles up to his desk, up to the one box already beside him for the interviews, could find the framed scenery Tim only gets snippets of, only glimpses when it falls into the corners of his sight. 

He might invite Babs, might give her a tour, show her what she helped him get, helped him buy. But for now, it was Babs clearing pictures, for now it was Babs that had seen more. “I would tell you to try me, but since Dick had called me yesterday already… can I guess on my own? _Timothy Drake_.”

Jason’s eyes flickered to the shallow silhouette of the hall, the docks and tunnels and insides of the house, to everything recent about Timothy Drake: the contract, the presence of him, the easy lift.

“He’s surprisingly good at it,” Jason said, stopped the fire of his cigarette. (There was no warmth to it, not anymore. 

The tobacco was just a taste.) 

“He’s surprisingly good at a lot of things,” Babs answered, a sigh at the tip of her mouth. 

(Jason didn’t need those. Didn’t want them. Didn’t want any disappointments anymore.)

“Yeah, isn’t that _convenient_. The week I state that I’m starting a new business he quits working for Bruce and shows up with an already written contract. Telling me he wants to work for _me_? Just fucking picture perfect.”

“Honestly, Jason, you should be flattered by that.”

“ _Honestly_? I’m – flabbergasted. I’m really damn confused. And I don’t believe him _or_ his intentions. _Why_ risk his glorious rocketing career for a business that might not work out at all? I mean – why would _anyone_ do that, let alone Tim fucking Drake?”

“Well, have you asked him?” Barbara’s fingers clicked against plastic again, he heard her sip a drink. Her calm was all he was missing against his own feet. 

“What?” he asked, and this time the tired, woozy sigh perched on his own shoulders.

“ _Ask_ him why he chose you. And _then_ pass judgment.”

“I’m just being cautious!” Jason said, defensive. “You understand that, right? Bruce screwed me over more than once and –”

“Look, Jay,” Babs interrupted him and as if in tune with her, the traffic below got quiet, got stalled for the second, the dizzy, sole moment it took her to say more. “If this isn’t about Tim, then say so right away. If it is, then there’s only one thing I have to say: Tim would never go double agent on you. I don’t know if _you_ know, but that’s why his Dad’s company went bankrupt. He might be stubborn and bossy and might over-analyze a lot of things, but he’s not two-faced and never was. Not to mention that he’s willing to do a lot of shitty work to prove his worth. You hired him as your assistant, right? Yet he’s there somewhere, stacking boxes, all alone, without a single word of complaint, while you’re out here making a personal phone call and having a smoking break. So the only advice I can give you is this: suck it up. Tim’s the best thing that could happen to your company, especially at this point in time, and if you want to be successful, you have to deal with it. There will be many more things you won’t like, a lot of compromises you might hate but will have to accept for the sake of your business. And if you _can’t_ you simply won’t make it anywhere. It’s harsh but true. So start with Tim. Accept that he’s here to help you and that if he’s giving you a chance, you have one. And tell him I said hi.”

The dial tone signed the bye more than Babs could and in the remains of her words, of her plain honesty: Jason finally felt the confusing, noisy drizzle of his thoughts line up.

Taking in the fresh cold of the morning Jason dusted off his forearms and caught a hazy portrait of himself in the glass, fixed the tips of hastily styled hair.

Before slipping his phone back to his pocket, he glanced at the screen of the ended call and even if everything about Tim still felt awkward, still felt out of place, he could see where he was being a stubborn, ungrateful brat.

“Thanks, Babs,” he said, to the phone, the balcony, the drifting traffic.

His time out was up. 

\---

Jason faintly waved with the two paper menus between the knuckles of his fingers, his thumb resting on the buttons of his phone. “Chinese or Italian?” he asked, tapping the screen restlessly. 

“The carpet? Not imported,” Tim answered, his gaze glued to the three piles of papers he had built before his knees; the boxes on his side a cheap imitation of a pyramid, weighted and weary under the strain. 

“I meant _lunch_.”

“Oh!” Looking up, Tim’s face became something borrowed; casual surprise stretching over his embarrassed mouth, hiding under the bones of his jaw. “I can get my own lunch.” 

“Which would be? As far as I know the nearest decent place is about three block away and unless you have brought your lunch with you, you would have to either go on foot which is kind of a long walk or take a taxi and that just adds to the expenses and as much as I don’t want to be a cheapskate we don’t really have an awfully big budget right now. Look, I promise I will scour the area for the best take out places soon and I promise there will be a nice, good cafeteria once the company’s running but right now it would _really_ make things damn easier if you said yes to everything I say. Or, _not_ say yes to everything I say but – try my options?” Jason paused, waited for Tim’s rich kid life to surface and scrunch his face, to wreck the spotless skin and straight nose, waited for Tim to prove that he has a right to dislike him.

Neither came.

“Alright.” Tim nodded, keeping their eyes in contact. 

Jason swallowed the annoyed grunt at Tim being everything Babs said he _is_ and nodded too. “Great. So, Italian or Chinese?”

“Italian. I don’t really care what it is but I prefer warm dishes?”

“Okay, something Italian and served hot. Anything else?”

“If it’s possible, a double espresso? Please.”

“Right. I’m going to phone it in.”

“Thank you, boss. Oh, and once you’re finished with the call, could you please tell me in which _Office crap_ box you keep your stapler? Office crap _one_ , _two_ or _three_?”

\---

Tim’s suit jacket has been ditched on the armrest of the couch and his tie was several inches looser, revealing the highest button of his shirt and his hair must kept tickling his neck, curling around his ears and staying in place just above the collar, the tips a bit damp where they’re clung to Tim’s skin. 

They both dug in into the pasta with careful hunger, clumsier with the dull plastic of the forks, the clatter against their plates almost wooden, dulled under the thick silence, prompting Tim to eat faster, the lunches with Dick spoiling him into needing noise, aimless chatter and coughing through laughter, spoiling him into being at ease and this awkwardness only made him feel like he had a sore throat, like there’s something stuck right above his lungs. He cleared his throat and sat the fork down, the tips soaking in the sauce as he reached for his coffee, tentatively sipping at the hot cup.

Jason slurped the last of his lunch and toyed with the left over sauce, scooting up higher against his side of the couch, licking away the taste in the corner of his mouth.

Putting the plate on the table, he turned to Tim, who was thoughtfully biting the fork in his mouth. 

Clearing his own throat Jason got the better half of Tim’s attention, the boy’s eyes darting to his. Hiding his fiddling, anxious fingers in the pockets of his pants, Jason spoke up. “Why did you apply for this job?” 

Tim’s teeth stopped biting the fork and he pushed it away along with his empty plate, cupping his coffee instead. “Am I still being interviewed?” He asked, asked as if he saw through Jason from the first angry, insecure insult Jason threw at him when they met in his laboratory, as if Jason was a book he had written himself, as if he was a song that was sung to him as a lullaby.

Jason’s whole presence narrowed, avoided the murmur of predictability, snapped without sharpness. “Let’s say that yes, you are. Why did you apply for this?” He pressed, gestured with his shoulders and Tim didn’t resist the pull, eyes moving across the room.

“I like a challenge,” Tim said, shrugged against the expensive linen of his shirt. The couch stirred underneath Jason’s thighs, Tim’s legs crossing at his ankles.

“So you think working with me is a _challenge_?” 

It stung, through them both, in difference places but itches always irritate and irritation is the one emotion they couldn’t afford to let stay, couldn’t pull out from under their skin. 

Tim understood that, understood the first day he had to stand up to his Dad, his sinking company, the corruption growing through the whole structure, curled around every tenth person Tim met. 

Tim understood. He got that swallowing emotions is what was needed the most.

“No,” he answered, squeezing the cup in his palms. “I think _building a company_ is a challenge.”

“That’s the only reason?”

Shaking his head, smiled at Jason through the small angle of his lips. “No. I wanted to work here because I want to build the company _you_ want. We might not like each other but – I like your goals. You want the Joker out of business and I want to help with that.”

Jason’s frown didn’t dissipate but he nodded, tasted conviction under his tongue. “I can accept that.”

“Great. Glad we sorted that out.” Tim turned away to search for his phone, placed somewhere inside of his discarded jacket, sagging around the side of the couch. “Since I am still on my lunch break, you won’t mind if I make a private call, will you?”

Jason stiffened, cursed at his own, stupid self for getting defensive, for suddenly feeling as though Tim was lying through his mouth all this time.

“Who are you calling? _Bruce_?”

Feeling his brows twitch, feeling the pressure in his jaw tightening, Tim unfairly felt like a liar. Like he was being dismissed, all over again.

“No. My boyfriend, actually.”

“What?”

“I’m calling my _boyfriend_. Is that going to be a problem?”

Distantly offended, Jason raised his palms, showed him the harmless defense inside of his words. “No. No, of course not. I’m absolutely a pro-boyfriend boss,” Jason answered but his expression stayed wary, distorted with distrust.

Tim stood up and held the phone against his ear, could easily pinpoint where Jason’s mistrust pretended to dug out every lie. With the dialing and a minute sigh escaping up his mouth, he faced Jason’s accusations, waiting for the thick, tinny cluck of a picked up line.

When it came, it nearly startled them both. 

“Oh hey, I’m sorry for calling I know you hate that, but I don’t have enough time to text this all out.” Tim greeted someone Jason couldn’t and didn’t want to hear, his assistant’s mouth reserved for the person on the line, but his eyes set on Jason, on the lines of his brows.

_“It’s okay, babe.”_

“I’m just calling to say that – I got the job!”

_“Of course you got the job. What’s it like?”_

“Like moving in but with less clothes and more thumbtacks stuck in your toes.”

_“Ouch. Take proper care of your toes, alright? They’re my favourites.”_

Tim laughed, the sound mostly escaping through his nose. “Sure will. Also, um, listen, I know you hate that _even more_ , but could I maybe put you on speaker for a minute? My boss thinks I’m talking to _Bruce_ , reporting everything I’ve seen so far.”

_“Sure thing, babe.”_

“You’re the best. Now could you repeat what you said to me right now?” Tim asked, tapping a button and holding the phone in his open palm, his arm lazily outstretched.

_“Sure thing, babe. And – that was it actually.”_

The person’s voice spread, touched them both and it was too young, too fond to belong to the hoarse throat of Bruce’s; to the face Jason sees when he hears his voice.

“Thank you,” Tim said, returning the call’s setting back to private, addressing Jason and his uncertain, unstable hands, the melted heat of his fear. “Convinced?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Standing up, Jason took the plates and threw them into an emptied box, embarrassed about being so paranoid, so scared, so easy to get his balance stolen where Bruce is – or could be – concerned.

“I’ll finish this in the hall then. Be back in a few minutes,” Tim said, picked up his warm coffee cup and skillfully opened the office door, closing it behind him like he was used to using his elbows on doors and their handles daily, like he was born to live in office halls and companies. 

(And maybe he _was_.)

For a second, Jason felt as empty, as misplaced, as bare as this room.


End file.
